Chapter 23 #2
She talked to him continuously. Talking would not cure the fever, but allowing silence felt like a surrender, and she absolutely refused to surrender to a broken branch on a muddy path.
She shared with him details about Longbourn.
She mentioned the garden, which her mother cared for more than anything else in her life.
She described the roses that blossomed every June, demanding relentless, tiring care, only to wither by August. She also talked about the lavender hedge her father planted in the year she was born.
Over twenty-one years, it grew into a dense, fragrant border that attracted swarms of bees, often prompting the cook's seasonal complaints.
“There is a bench,” she murmured, “under the oak tree at the back of the garden. My father put it there when I was small. He never said it was for me, but it was. It is the only bench in the garden that cannot be seen from the house. My father understood that I needed a place to read unobserved.”
Darcy's shaking had not stopped, but his eyes were fixed upon her face. They were slightly clearer, and she intended to keep him anchored to that clarity.
“I read there every afternoon when the weather permitted,” she said.
“I took books from my father's library without asking.
He never once mentioned it, though he must have noticed, for I was never subtle.
I read novels, poetry, and sermons. My father's library did not discriminate between the edifying and the entertaining, and neither did I.”
His hand found hers. The grip was terribly weak.
He was marshalling his strength merely to hold her fingers.
The weakness frightened her more than the blood.
Since the shipwreck, his hands had been strong; they had held her, lifted her, and touched her with a complete certainty. That certainty was quite absent now.
“The bench needs painting,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.
“It has needed painting for three years.
My mother mentions it, and my father agrees, yet nobody ever paints it.
Leaving it peeling has become its own kind of tradition, much like the bees in the kitchen, and my mother's annual conviction that the hedgerow requires replanting.”
He almost smiled. The muscles of his face tightened, but he lacked the strength to finish the expression. Still, it was proof; he was in there, fighting through the fever and the pain to listen to her talk about a peeling bench in Hertfordshire.
The rain continued. Morning arrived, grey, wet, and cold. The temperature had dropped significantly with the storm, leaving them shivering in their damp clothes.
She did not leave him. She desperately needed water, and the spring was only ten feet away, but those ten feet might as well have been ten miles. She absolutely refused to release his head from her lap.
She waited for hours. Sometime past midday, the rain finally eased, thinning from a violent assault to a light drizzle.
When the rain stopped entirely, she moved fast. She settled his head on the ground as gently as she could, sprinted to the spring, filled their coconut shell cup, and hurried back.
She lifted his head and pressed the cup to his lips. He drank clumsily, the water running down his chin. The instinct to drink was an enormous relief; it meant the fever had not completely overwhelmed his senses.
The fever broke in the evening.
She knew the exact moment, because the violent shaking finally stopped.
The sustained tremors that had wracked his body for twelve hours simply ceased.
The stillness was so sudden and complete that she placed her trembling hand flat on his chest in sheer panic.
He was still breathing. His breaths were slow and deep; it was the sleep of a man who had fought a terrible battle and survived.
His eyes opened. Clear. Present. Finding her face.
“Elizabeth.”
“I am here.”
“How long?”
“Since last night. Twelve hours, approximately. I was not counting with precision; I was wholly occupied with keeping you breathing.”
He reached for her hand. His grip was far stronger than it had been that morning.
“You talked about Longbourn,” he said.
“You heard.”
“The bench. The garden. Your mother's roses.”
“My mother's roses that die every August, yes. I was running out of subjects. I had just moved on to detailing the poultry yard.”
He laughed. It was weak and barely audible, closer to a heavy exhalation, but it was a genuine laugh.
She did not cry. She had suppressed her tears for twelve hours through sheer force of will, and her will was iron. She was Elizabeth Bennet, and her determination had always been sufficient.
The iron held for ten seconds after he laughed. And then, it shattered.
She began to weep. It was not the quiet, measured crying she had exhibited after the ship passed.
It was hard, ragged, and wholly uncontrolled.
She had spent twelve hours holding his head, refusing to consider the possibility that he might die.
The tears were born of great relief, sheer fury, and a desperate, overwhelming love.
“You stupid, reckless man,” she gasped between sobs.
“You went to check a tower in the dark because you are incapable of relinquishing control!
The situation nearly killed you. I have spent the night huddled under a rock, talking about my mother's roses, terrified that you were going to die in my arms.”
“I am sorry.”
“You are not sorry! You would do it again. You would check the tower again because you view it as your responsibility. You do not know how to leave a duty unchecked, even when checking it might kill you. That stubbornness is what I love most about you, and what I hate most about you, and I am absolutely furious.”
“I can see that.”
“Do not laugh at me.”
“I am not laughing. I am smiling, which is different. The smile is involuntary. You are crying and calling me stupid, but I am alive, and you are here, and I cannot control my relief.”
She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her tears were subsiding, and her fury was spending itself, leaving behind a great exhaustion. She looked down at him. His face was pale and drawn, but his eyes were clear. He looked up at her with complete, unshielded devotion.
“Do not ever do that again,” she said.
“I will endeavour.”
“You will not endeavour. You will promise me. You will swear to me that you will not die on this island.”
“I swear it.”
“Good.” She wiped her face again. “Now drink more water and be quiet. Let me think about what to do next. The tower is damaged, the fire is out, and you are injured. I am in charge now, and my orders are not negotiable.”
He drank the water. He was quiet. She thought.
The rain had stopped. The evening light was grey and soft, and the air smelled cleanly of wet stone and crushed herbs. Elizabeth sat under the rock overhang with the man she had kept alive, and she began to plan.